All Roads Lead to Calvary [46]
to her through the generations from some harness-girded ancestress--something impelling her instinctively to choose the fighter; to share with him the joy of battle, healing his wounds, giving him of her courage, exulting with him in the victory.
The moon had risen clear of the entangling pines. It rode serene and free.
Her father came to the station with her in the morning. The train was not in: and they walked up and down and talked. Suddenly she remembered: it had slipped her mind.
"Could I, as a child, have known an old clergyman?" she asked him. "At least he wouldn't have been old then. I dropped into Chelsea Church one evening and heard him preach; and on the way home I passed him again in the street. It seemed to me that I had seen his face before. But not for many years. I meant to write you about it, but forgot."
He had to turn aside for a moment to speak to an acquaintance about business.
"Oh, it's possible," he answered on rejoining her. "What was his name?"
"I do not know," she answered. "He was not the regular Incumbent. But it was someone that I seemed to know quite well--that I must have been familiar with."
"It may have been," he answered carelessly, "though the gulf was wider then than it is now. I'll try and think. Perhaps it is only your fancy."
The train drew in, and he found her a corner seat, and stood talking by the window, about common things.
"What did he preach about?" he asked her unexpectedly.
She was puzzled for the moment. "Oh, the old clergyman," she answered, recollecting. "Oh, Calvary. All roads lead to Calvary, he thought. It was rather interesting."
She looked back at the end of the platform. He had not moved.
CHAPTER IX
A pile of correspondence was awaiting her and, standing by the desk, she began to open and read it. Suddenly she paused, conscious that someone had entered the room and, turning, she saw Hilda. She must have left the door ajar, for she had heard no sound. The child closed the door noiselessly and came across, holding out a letter.
"Papa told me to give you this the moment you came in," she said. Joan had not yet taken off her things. The child must have been keeping a close watch. Save for the signature it contained but one line: "I have accepted."
Joan replaced the letter in its envelope, and laid it down upon the desk. Unconsciously a smile played about her lips.
The child was watching her. "I'm glad you persuaded him," she said.
Joan felt a flush mount to her face. She had forgotten Hilda for the instant.
She forced a laugh. "Oh, I only persuaded him to do what he had made up his mind to do," she explained. "It was all settled."
"No, it wasn't," answered the child. "Most of them were against it. And then there was Mama," she added in a lower tone.
"What do you mean," asked Joan. "Didn't she wish it?"
The child raised her eyes. There was a dull anger in them. "Oh, what's the good of pretending," she said. "He's so great. He could be the Prime Minister of England if he chose. But then he would have to visit kings and nobles, and receive them at his house, and Mama--" She broke off with a passionate gesture of the small thin hands.
Joan was puzzled what to say. She knew exactly what she ought to say: what she would have said to any ordinary child. But to say it to this uncannily knowing little creature did not promise much good.
"Who told you I persuaded him?" she asked.
"Nobody," answered the child. "I knew."
Joan seated herself, and drew the child towards her.
"It isn't as terrible as you think," she said. "Many men who have risen and taken a high place in the world were married to kind, good women unable to share their greatness. There was Shakespeare, you know, who married Anne Hathaway and had a clever daughter. She was just a nice, homely body a few years older than himself. And he seems to have been very fond of her; and was always running down to Stratford to be with her."
"Yes, but he didn't bring her up to London," answered the
The moon had risen clear of the entangling pines. It rode serene and free.
Her father came to the station with her in the morning. The train was not in: and they walked up and down and talked. Suddenly she remembered: it had slipped her mind.
"Could I, as a child, have known an old clergyman?" she asked him. "At least he wouldn't have been old then. I dropped into Chelsea Church one evening and heard him preach; and on the way home I passed him again in the street. It seemed to me that I had seen his face before. But not for many years. I meant to write you about it, but forgot."
He had to turn aside for a moment to speak to an acquaintance about business.
"Oh, it's possible," he answered on rejoining her. "What was his name?"
"I do not know," she answered. "He was not the regular Incumbent. But it was someone that I seemed to know quite well--that I must have been familiar with."
"It may have been," he answered carelessly, "though the gulf was wider then than it is now. I'll try and think. Perhaps it is only your fancy."
The train drew in, and he found her a corner seat, and stood talking by the window, about common things.
"What did he preach about?" he asked her unexpectedly.
She was puzzled for the moment. "Oh, the old clergyman," she answered, recollecting. "Oh, Calvary. All roads lead to Calvary, he thought. It was rather interesting."
She looked back at the end of the platform. He had not moved.
CHAPTER IX
A pile of correspondence was awaiting her and, standing by the desk, she began to open and read it. Suddenly she paused, conscious that someone had entered the room and, turning, she saw Hilda. She must have left the door ajar, for she had heard no sound. The child closed the door noiselessly and came across, holding out a letter.
"Papa told me to give you this the moment you came in," she said. Joan had not yet taken off her things. The child must have been keeping a close watch. Save for the signature it contained but one line: "I have accepted."
Joan replaced the letter in its envelope, and laid it down upon the desk. Unconsciously a smile played about her lips.
The child was watching her. "I'm glad you persuaded him," she said.
Joan felt a flush mount to her face. She had forgotten Hilda for the instant.
She forced a laugh. "Oh, I only persuaded him to do what he had made up his mind to do," she explained. "It was all settled."
"No, it wasn't," answered the child. "Most of them were against it. And then there was Mama," she added in a lower tone.
"What do you mean," asked Joan. "Didn't she wish it?"
The child raised her eyes. There was a dull anger in them. "Oh, what's the good of pretending," she said. "He's so great. He could be the Prime Minister of England if he chose. But then he would have to visit kings and nobles, and receive them at his house, and Mama--" She broke off with a passionate gesture of the small thin hands.
Joan was puzzled what to say. She knew exactly what she ought to say: what she would have said to any ordinary child. But to say it to this uncannily knowing little creature did not promise much good.
"Who told you I persuaded him?" she asked.
"Nobody," answered the child. "I knew."
Joan seated herself, and drew the child towards her.
"It isn't as terrible as you think," she said. "Many men who have risen and taken a high place in the world were married to kind, good women unable to share their greatness. There was Shakespeare, you know, who married Anne Hathaway and had a clever daughter. She was just a nice, homely body a few years older than himself. And he seems to have been very fond of her; and was always running down to Stratford to be with her."
"Yes, but he didn't bring her up to London," answered the